A Different Rulebook
by Hildegaarde
Summary: Kid Curry is hired to chase a card sharp out of town after one of the other players suspects that he's not playing poker by the same rules as everyone else.
1. Chapter 1

**_Colorado Territory, 1878_**

The early morning sun shone down on a street that to any onlooker would have seemed crowded, until they realized that a stagecoach was heading out of town with a payroll shipment inside. Then they would have wondered why there were comparatively few guards present, until they knew that one of the men riding along was known as Thaddeus Jones.

"You stay out of trouble now, y'hear, Thaddeus?" Heyes ordered as he tossed the saddlebags onto the top of the coach. "I'll be right here waitin' two weeks from now."

Kid Curry sent his partner the expression that horses sometimes give their inexperienced riders—the 'you dumb human' look. "Smith, every time you say that to me, it's always you that ends up gettin' into mischief. You just concentrate on talkin' Major Wilkins into givin' us a job when he arrives, and I'll worry about guardin' the stage."

Heyes stepped back as the driver mounted the box of the heavily guarded stagecoach. "I think your job is easier."

"Oh yeah?" The Kid rolled his eyes and pulled his hat down, bracing his feet for the inevitable lurch of the stage when the driver cracked his whip. The vehicle swirled away in a cloud of dust, and his words drifted faintly back, almost drowned by the sound of hooves. "You don't have to ride with him!"

* * *

**_Two Weeks Later . . ._**

Kid Curry had exactly two things on his mind as he rode the last few miles back to town—a hot meal and a hot bath.

The rifle shot that splintered a branch near his head changed that in a hurry. Within seconds his gun was out of the holster and pointing in the direction of the unseen shooter while his horse danced uneasily beneath him.

"Put your gun up, mister! I just want to talk!" the man hollered. Curry placed him in a pile of rocks higher on the hill. A good place to shoot from, but nowhere to retreat.

"You got a mighty hostile way of startin' a conversation!" The Kid's black horse tossed his head against the tight hold on the reins, but the revolver didn't lower.

"Look, I needed to see how you could handle a gun. There's a hundred dollars in it for you if you take the job I'm offerin'." The man rose from the rocks, rifle held high above his head in a gesture of surrender.

Curry dropped the pistol back into the holster and waited while the man slid down the hill. "I can't think of too many jobs worth doin' for a hundred bucks that need an interview at rifle point."

"My name's Bryant. Bill Bryant. I'm sorry if I scared you." Graying hair stuck wildly out from under a battered bowler hat that had once been black. Bryant had narrow shoulders and a belly that hung over his belt, complete with stains on the front of his shirt and a two-day growth on his chin.

The Kid eyed him with a smirk that pulled at one corner of his mouth. "Mr. Bryant, I wasn't half as scared as you would be if you knew how close you came to gettin' a little round hole blowed right in the middle of your forehead," he drawled.

Bryant grinned, revealing a gold tooth. "I like your guts. You're the fourth man I've tried and none of the others were worth an empty cartridge case."

"You mean you're holdin' up ever'one on the road looking for someone to hire? I've had some interestin' job offers in my time, but you beat all." Curry turned his horse toward the trail.

"Wait!" Bryant exclaimed. "I'm not lookin' for anything illegal, and like I said before, I'll pay you a hundred dollars if you pull it off."

The Kid looked him over again. "Start talkin'."

"There's a fellow who's been playin' poker over to the Purple Pony in town, and I'm sure he's not usin' the same rule book as everyone else but I can't prove it. I've lost to him six straight nights, and I've had enough. All I want you to do is beat him to the draw—you could do it easily—and run him out of town."

Curry laughed, but it wasn't amused. "All I got to do is beat him to the draw," he repeated. "Say—this poker player wouldn't happen to be hangin' around with a Major Wilkins, would he?"

"Nope. He's a loner."

"Oh well. I thought it might have been a friend of mine." He patted his horse's neck thoughtfully. "You just want me to chase him out of your game, right? I'm not gonna kill anyone for you, no matter what the price is."

"Just threaten him. He looks like he'll run easy."

"Look, Mr. Bryant, is there some other reason you want him gone besides the poker game?" the Kid asked with a suspicion honed by years on the trail with Hannibal Heyes.

Bryant puffed up indignantly. "Of course not! I'm not a good enough poker player to catch him cheatin', but I'm sure he is. That's all."

"Well," Curry drawled the word slowly. "I sure could use a hundred dollars."

* * *

The Purple Pony Saloon resembled a thousand other saloons scattered across the West, complete with thick smoke, filthy patrons, a scattergun under the bar, and a slightly grimy chandelier. Three tables held card games, and a roulette wheel was in the corner opposite the piano.

"The fella in the white shirt at the table in the middle."

The Kid looked over his shoulder at the whisper and saw that Bryant had followed him into the building but was being careful to keep the gunslinger between himself and the poker table. He rolled his blue eyes faintly and turned to watch the play, his presence somewhat obscured by the haze that emanated from a cigar in the mouth of a short cowpoke in a flat-top hat. "You're sure he's cheatin'?"

"He's the one. Remember, a hundred dollars!" Bryant hissed.

Curry rolled his right shoulder, and his fingertips brushed the grip of his revolver. "I haven't forgotten."

He ambled over to the table and took up a position on the opposite side of the table from the man with the largest pile of chips in front of him. No one looked up. "Could I have a word with you gents?" he drawled.

His feet-spread, cold-eyed stance sent chairs scraping back and tension snapping around the room. Conversations died and men turned to watch the action unfolding.

"What can I do for you, friend?" the winning player asked politely. His calm air contrasted noticeably with the hostility of the other participants in the game.

Curry hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and glanced around the table. "I been watchin' the game, and I've come to the conclusion that one of you is usin' a different rulebook." At the words, several hands dropped to pistol grips and everyone was scowling.

The winner's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "I hope you plan to explain that."

"I sure do. See, this man right here—" he nodded at the man to the left of the winner "was markin' kings with his thumbnail."

The accused jumped to his feet, and dust puffed up from his brown leather vest. "You can't prove that!"

"I saw you do it." The Kid turned his attention to the next man around the table. "Then this fella over on this side, he's got an ace up his sleeve and another one in his hand that he put there on the last round."

The winning player clamped his hand over the other man's wrist before he could reach for his gun and slowly pulled up the cuff of his sleeve. The ace of clubs fluttered to the table.

Murmurs around the room swelled to a roar, but Curry wasn't finished yet. "And our dealer, well, it pains me to say it, but he's been dealin' from the bottom of the deck." He tsk'ed sadly at the man's dumbfounded expression. "Y'know, it's such a shame that your partner over here in the black hat wasn't a little more careful when he showed you the threes in his hand, or I might never have noticed what y'all were up to."

"What about me?" The winning player was smiling, his brown eyes bright with anticipation. "Got anything to say about me?"

The Kid nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Bill Bryant rub his hands together gleefully. "Now I been watchin' you too, and I reckon you're the only one in this game playin' it straight. Like I said, you're usin' a different rulebook."

Bryant surged forward with a cry of protest. "You're supposed to get rid of him! I promised you a hundred dollars!"

Curry ignored him. "What's an honest man like you doin' playin' poker with a bunch of cheatin' no-goods?"

"Oh, just trying to keep out of trouble." Hannibal Heyes broke into a full-fledged grin and began to methodically pile up his winnings. "What's this hundred dollars he's talkin' about?"

"He hired me to run you out of town. Didn't like the way you played poker," the Kid explained, pulling an empty chair over to the table. The dishonest members of the game scooted away, leaving the two of them at the table and Bryant dancing with indignation in the background. "Did you talk to Major Wilkins?"

The grin disappeared. "No, he got shot down in Denver. Reckon that job he was gonna give us ain't available anymore."

"That's okay," Curry consoled. "We got a hundred dollars comin', providin' we leave town tonight. Ain't that right, Mr. Bryant?"

Bryant dithered for a moment, and the Kid turned in his seat to eye him squarely. "Ain't that right, you owe me a hundred dollars if he leaves town," he said without any hint of question in his voice.

"That's right," Bryant conceded grudgingly.

Heyes finished stacking his chips and scooped the neat piles into his hands. "In that case, I'll go cash in my winnings and head over to the livery so you can collect your money. Nice seein' you again, Mr. Bryant."

Fifteen minutes later the partners mounted their horses in the darkened street. "Got any ideas where we're headed?" the Kid asked. "I don't much fancy another night out in the open."

"I reckon we're spendin' the night right over in that hotel," Heyes replied smugly. "After we ride out of town for an hour or so, long enough for ol' Bryant to get settled into another crooked poker game. He never said we couldn't come back, did he?"

Curry grinned. "I reckon he didn't at that. Let's go."


	2. Chapter 2

Dust motes danced in the thin stream of early morning sunlight peeking through the gap in the curtains. As the intrusive ray touched his face, Heyes dragged his pillow over his head with a grunt.

The sound of a fist against the wooden door was more effective at rousing him. "Who is it?" he called, tossing the pillow aside. In the bed across the room, Kid Curry sat up with one hand already holding his gun.

"Telegram for a Mr. Smith!"

Heyes swung his feet to the floor and padded over to open the door a crack. A young boy held out a folded piece of paper. "Thanks, son."

"What's it say?" Curry dropped the gun back into the holster that rested within easy reach of his hand.

"Job more important than ever STOP will pay you fifty a week each STOP get to Lazy W Ranch soonest and don't leave til I come STOP deed behind fireplace STOP take plenty bullets STOP Maj. W.K. Wilkins."

"Well, that sounds to me like askin' for a lot of trouble, and trouble's somethin' we don't need. Remember?" The Kid slipped back down and pulled the quilt over his head.

"Now wait a minute, Kid, you're not gonna argue with fifty dollars a week each, are you? That's a hundred dollars a week for the two of us, and all we have to do is wait at the major's ranch until he gets healed up enough to leave Denver."

"Wait at the ranch and shoot who?" the quilt replied in muffled accents.

"He never said we'd have to shoot anyone. Maybe the hunting's real good up there and he thought we'd like somethin' to do," Heyes suggested as he pulled on his boots. "Would you stop lazin' around and get up?"

"I like it under here. It's peaceful. Not like this job you want us to take."

"Come on, Kid." Heyes crossed to the window and glanced out at the street below. "There's another good reason why we should take that job."

Curry yanked the quilt down to reveal a scowl. "What's that?"

"Your friend Mr. Bryant's headed this way and he's got the sheriff with him."

The Kid's feet hit the floor before the last word left Heyes' mouth.

* * *

At first glance the Lazy W ranch headquarters didn't look any different from any of a dozen ranches that had enjoyed the pleasure of hosting the two most successful outlaws in the history of the West. Barn doors propped open with a chunk of firewood, a dilapidated cabin in worse condition than the barn, the missing wheel from the wagon behind the barn leaning against the cabin wall, a scrawny remuda in the corral—

"Horses in the corral?" Heyes reined his dun to a sudden halt.

"Maybe we got the wrong place. I told you we shoulda gone south instead of north at the fork, but would you listen to me? No! You said—"

"I know what I said, and I still say that this is Wilkins' place." Heyes continued down the hill. "Look, there's a Lazy W brand burned into the barn wall."

"It's not what's on the wall that bothers me," Curry muttered. "It's what's in the doorway, pointin' a rifle in our direction. Ain't that the crooked dealer from back in town?"

"It sure is. One thing in our favor about him—he bluffs easy."

As they approached, the rifle lowered slightly but the man holding it kept his finger near the trigger. "Howdy, Smith. What're you doin' here?"

"Howdy, Joe!" Heyes put on a big smile and swung down from his horse, ignoring the rifle. "I'd like you to meet a friend of mine, Thaddeus Jones. I didn't get to introduce you proper the other night. We're just here to sorta check on things, if you know what I mean, see that the old place doesn't have any problems."

Joe nodded curtly in Curry's direction, leaning the rifle against the barn wall in reluctant recognition. "Who asked you to check?"

"The owner." The Kid dismounted and began to loosen his cinches. "Major W.K. Wilkins."

"He ain't the owner, and you better git!" Joe's hand reaching for the rifle was stopped by the sudden appearance of Curry's gun in his hand.

"Leave the rifle where it is, Joe," the Kid instructed. "Major Wilkins hired us to watch this place, and he didn't say nothin' about you. That means you got no reason to be here."

Heyes stepped between the two men and grabbed his partner's arm. "Now take it easy, Thaddeus, don't get excited," he said in a soothing tone. "Joe, you better take his advice. I'd hate to have him get riled at you."

"Why?" Joe snapped.

The Kid gazed blankly at his friend as Heyes confided, "The last fella who questioned Thaddeus about a job he'd taken, well, some of him is still right where Thaddeus left it." He yanked off his hat and held it over his chest for a moment, then replaced it on his dark hair. "To tell the truth, Joe, I just don't have it in me to watch all that over again. So why don't you just ride on out of here before he gets upset."

"I got a legal right to be on this ranch—to keep Wilkins' men off of it," Joe complained. "You can't shoot me just for bein' here."

"No, you can't shoot him," Heyes grinned. "That don't mean he can't shoot you. Like he said back in that poker game, we play by a different rulebook to you."

The crooked dealer glanced from one to the other and then threw up his hands in disgust. "I ain't gettin' paid enough for this job anyway."

* * *

Curry wore a scowl as he watched the horse and rider disappear up the trail. "Why'd you say all that to him?"

"To get rid of him." Heyes sent his dun into the corral with a slap to the horse's rump. "It worked."

"Yeah, but you made me sound like some kind of lunatic," Curry griped.

"Well, ain't ya?" Heyes grinned at him. "You hang around with me."

The Kid rolled his eyes and hefted his saddle to tote into the barn. "I'm beginning to think you may be right—about both of us. What do we do now that we've chased off the company?"

"I think we should find that deed that's hidden in the fireplace and take a real good look at it."

"I think we should find some supper first. It's one of the three most important meals of the day, you know," Curry announced.

After supper they set to work searching the huge river-rock fireplace that took up most of the south wall of the main room. Heyes looked up the chimney while Curry prodded the stones on the left side. Then Curry examined the bare mantelpiece as Heyes tested the stones on the other side.

Together they stood back and stared at the four-foot-wide chimney that extended all the way to the roof. "One of us will have to stand on that chair over there," Heyes declared.

"It looks kind of fragile to me." The Kid crossed his arms. "If you think it's so safe, you do it."

Heyes dug in his pocket for a coin. "I'll flip you for it."


	3. Chapter 3

Precariously balanced on top of a rickety chair that sat atop the table, Kid Curry prodded, examined, pressed, tested and tapped each rock in the towering chimney.

Below him Heyes leaned against the wall beside the fireplace with his arms comfortably folded across his chest and offered a running stream of advice and encouragement.

"You know, Heyes, I don't mind if you want to do this," Curry broke into the commentary, his nose inches from a rough-edged rock. "Since you seem to know so much about it and all."

Heyes absently ran his fingertips over the mortar of the fireplace where it met the wall.

"It takes a certain talent to perch on one foot on a pile of junk and squeeze stones," the Kid continued.

With two fingers Heyes tugged at a corner of paper sticking out of an almost-invisible gap and withdrew a folded document.

"I mean, not ever'one's dumb enough to do this . . . Heyes? Are you listenin' to me, Heyes?"

He didn't look up. "Sure I am, Kid, I'm just busy reading this deed."

"You mean you found it?" Curry turned on his pile to glare down. The chair creaked, and he pushed off in a jump just as the leg of the table cracked and the entire contraption collapsed. He landed on his feet beside the chair, which was now a stool.

Heyes glanced up with a frown. "Aw, Kid, did you have to do that? You busted the only table we got to eat off of. Not to mention the chair."

The Kid crossed his arms, opened his mouth for a blistering reply, then gave up in disgust. "Is that the deed to this ranch?"

"Yep." Heyes held it out for them both to read. "Says the whole lot's owned by Major Wilkins."

"Then why did Joe say he was hired to keep Wilkins' men off the place?"

"I don't know, but I'm beginning to get the feeling that this job won't be quite as simple as we thought it would."

* * *

The table leg had a temporary repair, but it was obvious that any impact would send the furniture crashing down, along with the remains of supper that sat in front of the two cabin inhabitants. The last rays of daylight filtered through the grime-smeared windowpane and illuminated the saddlebags dumped one of three blanket-covered bunks.

"You know somethin', Kid? This job ain't all bad." Heyes surveyed the gravy-smeared plates and his partner's one remaining bite of steak with a complacent expression. "We've been a whole day without anyone stopping by, or asking nosy questions, or wondering where they've seen us before."

"To say nothin' of the fact that we're not actually doin' anything," the Kid agreed. "No cattle to punch, no fences to mend 'cos there ain't any fences yet, nothin' to do but sit and drink your disgusting coffee."

"If you want to make the coffee—"

Gunshots exploded from high up on the hill in front of the cabin.

Heyes rolled his eyes to the ceiling as they both palmed their guns. "There goes our peace and quiet."

"Who do you think's out there?" Curry peered out the window, careful to stay out of sight.

"Well, I don't think Joe would have the guts to come back alone, but he might have brought a few friends with him."

They listened for a moment to the barrage. "One of 'em has a buffalo gun," the Kid announced as another deep boom came from the hillside and the window frame splintered. "Good thing I wasn't standing on that side of the window."

"Slick Simpson—you know, the fella who had the aces up his sleeve in that poker game—well, he had a Sharps 50-50 stashed in his gear."

Curry turned to stare at his friend. "You sat in a game with a guy named Slick? Come on, Heyes, you taught me better than that!"

"He was a lousy poker player," Heyes shrugged. He slid over to the two rifles leaning against the wall by the front door and took one to the Kid, then took up a position beside the window on the side of the cabin. "Question is, what do they want with this ranch? The deed says it belongs to Major Wilkins—"

Another round of shooting made them hunker down. "They don't even know what they're shootin' at," Curry complained. "It's gotta be that crowd from the poker game. They didn't look like they had two bits' worth of brains between 'em, and you hafta be pretty dumb to start takin' potshots at a house all of a sudden."

"You hafta be dumber to sit and do nothin' in a house that someone's shooting up!" Heyes cracked the door just wide enough for the muzzle of his gun and fired off two rapid shots.

The Kid followed with a shot from the window, and the firing from the hill died away.

"Think we ran 'em off?" Heyes pulled the door closed.

"If they're smart. Unfortunately, they're dumb." Curry tucked his used cartridge into a pocket and reloaded the rifle. "I'll bet they're sneakin' around the place right now tryin' to come up from the back."

"There's no windows at the back, but there is a door. I suppose they could rush the cabin and try to overpower us . . ." Heyes lightly stepped across the wooden floor, holding his rifle under his arm.

With a skill developed over years of manipulating safe dials, Heyes gently and silently rotated the knob of the back door and eased it open an inch. He listened for a moment, then abruptly thrust the barrel of the rifle through the gap at head height.

A dull thudding sound preceded the crash of an unconscious body through the doorway. Heyes dragged the inert form inside and kicked the door shut.

"What is it?" Curry didn't leave his position by the window.

Heyes turned the man over. "Poor fellow, he unfortunately happened to walk into my rifle accidental-like." He wagged his head reprovingly. "Calls himself Thumbs. He was in that game too—the player in partnership with Joe."

The Kid sighed. "Heyes, you got bad taste in company."


	4. Chapter 4

Heyes knelt down beside his unconscious victim and began to search his vest pockets. "Hmm. Sneak gun . . . tobacco pouch . . . knife—hey, what's this? Kid!"

Curry didn't leave his post by the window. "Find a marked deck of cards?"

"Nope. A deed."

The words brought the Kid over in a hurry to stare at the paper in his friend's hand. "Another deed to the ranch? That don't make sense."

"No, but there's one thing that does make sense. If we get caught up in a land war over forged papers, we can kiss that amnesty goodbye forever. Here, you tie him up while I get that other deed out."

Using a length of discarded rein from a pile of abandoned tack, the Kid tied Thumbs hand and foot and then joined Heyes at the table, where the two deeds lay side by side. "Well?"

"I dunno, Kid, I'm no expert on forgery."

Thumbs gave a groan from the corner, but the two barely spared him a glance.

"Now ain't that pathetic," the Kid groused. "Between us we know plenty about safes, holdups, cheatin' at poker, shootin' guns, and a whole list more of criminal pursuits, but we ain't got the first clue about forgin' legal documents."

Heyes scowled at the deeds. "Well, nobody's perfect."

"Hey Thumbs!" The shout came from outside the cabin. "You got them two fellas covered?"

"Was that what he was supposed to be doing?" Curry observed the groaning captive with a distinct lack of sympathy. "Holdin' us up from the back while they came up the front?"

"It wasn't a bad plan, if they'd managed to get their timing right," Heyes defended his opponents. "All the same, I don't like this phony deed business. Let's see what their side of the story is."

The Kid slipped over to the door and cracked it slightly to call out in an artificially deep voice, "I got 'em. Come on in."

They took up positions on each side of the door and waited for the less-than-furtive approach of their would-be captors. As boots sounded outside, the Kid pulled the door open so that it concealed his body behind it.

"Good wor—Thumbs?" The first man through the door sported an oiled hairdo and a startled expression as his nose came within inches of Heyes' cocked revolver. Heyes deftly relieved him of his Sharps rifle and pushed him into the middle of the room.

The grubby man in the brown vest was following too close on his companion's heels to turn and run, and Kid Curry's reaching hand was able to swipe his revolver from the holster as he moved past the door.

"Belpher, stop right there. The rest of you come in with your hands up!" Heyes ordered without lowering his weapon.

"Them two fellas got the drop on Thumbs," Joe complained as he trudged through the door, keeping a wary eye on the ferocious Thaddeus Jones. "How'd you do that?"

"It wasn't exactly hard," Heyes admitted. "Howdy, Mr. Bryant. You hire these fellas like you tried to hire Thaddeus there to run me out of town?"

"You're making a big mistake! I have the deed to this ranch, and you have no business being on it," Bryant huffed, relinquishing his rifle into Curry's care.

"No you don't have the deed to the ranch, we have it right on the table over there. Incidentally, why was Thumbs carrying the deed with him?" Heyes asked.

Bryant's beady eyes bulged. "You don't suppose that I'd be careless enough to carry it myself! No, I trust my men to take care of my valuable documents in case anything happens to me—in return for protecting me, they all get shares in the ranch once we get rid of that land-grabbin' cavalryman."

"That land-grabbin' cavalryman happens to be our boss," Curry drawled, leaning forward to make his point in Bryant's face. "And he hired us to keep land-grabbin' gamblers off of it."

"Don't rile him, Mr. Bryant. I hear he's a killer," Joe the dealer protested with his hands still above his head. "You shoulda seen him when they first rode in."

Curry sent Heyes a 'see what you've done now' glare, but his partner ignored it. "Joe, if you and your friends here don't make any trouble you won't get hurt. My friend here only gets riled when folks don't do as he says."

"And right now he says that Smith should go get some ropes off their horses so we can tie up our guests for the night. I'll keep them covered," the Kid announced.

* * *

With the unwanted visitors securely tied, Heyes and Curry returned to the table to compare the two deeds. Behind them they could hear mumbled complaints from the captives. "Belpher, how do you suppose them fellers captured Thumbs?" the gambler named Slick hissed in what he thought was an undervoice.

"I dunno," replied Belpher. "Thumbs, how'd you ever get caught anyways?"

Thumbs groaned something unintelligible.

"You know what, Slick? It must've taken some right clever brains to get the drop on us all," Belpher reasoned. "They must be lawmen or else some real experienced outlaws."

Curry sent a slight frown across the room. "That's enough talkin' out of you over there."

Belpher lowered his voice a notch. "They didn't say they was lawmen or that we was under arrest . . . so they must be outlaws."

"After all this time, why does he have to take up thinking?" Heyes groused in a whisper, squinting at the deed from the fireplace. "But hey, he's not bad for a first-timer."

"I'll bet they're Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry!" Slick speculated. "Ain't no one else good enough to get the drop on Thumbs like that."

"Well now, you boys might just be wrong about that," Kid Curry interrupted their unwelcome line of reasoning. "See, my name's Thaddeus Jones, and my friend here is Joshua Smith. We got the drop on Thumbs because we play by a different rulebook to you fellas—we don't sit around waiting for someone to sneak in the back door."

"'Sides, if we were these outlaws, Heyes and—what was his name, Murray, was it?—why would we work for someone like Major Wilkins from the army?" Heyes inquired innocently.

The Kid smirked at his partner. "Boys, it doesn't take outlaws like Curry and that other fella Brays to get the best of you. Why don't you take up a nice safe job like punchin' cows instead of invading private property?"

"I keep telling you, this is my land!" Bryant exploded.

"We'll see about that in the mornin'. Now I want all of you to sit nice and quiet until then, okay?" Curry turned his gaze back to the papers and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Are they really as dumb as they seem?"

Heyes exercised his dimples. "Remember that poker game? They were all cheatin', and I played straight and still beat them."


	5. Chapter 5

After a night spent alternating between sleeping and watching prisoners, neither ex-outlaw was particularly pleased to see the sun rise.

"What are we gonna do with these fellas?" Kid Curry asked as he tossed a forkful of hay into the corral. A sudden breeze made him scowl and brush stalks out of his face. "We can't keep 'em here indefinitely, and we don't know how long we're goin' to be here before Major Wilkins arrives."

"It's a cinch we can't turn 'em over to the sheriff," Heyes agreed. "They'd tell him they were captured by Heyes and Curry, and first thing you know he'd be out here makin' an arrest."

"I don't like the idea of us holdin' down a ranch with two deeds to the title. Makes our position kinda shaky, if you know what I mean. It's like playin' poker by the rules when ever'one else in the game is cheatin'." Curry sent his partner a pointed look and his horse another forkful of hay.

Heyes flashed a grin. "If you'll remember, Kid, I was winnin'."

"As I recall it, one of your fellow players got mad and hired some gunslinger to run you out of town," the Kid corrected.

"Think we could just run them off the ranch? Warn them of what'll happen if they come back and send them on their way?"

"And just what will happen if they come back?" Curry challenged.

"Er . . . hopefully they'll find Major Wilkins and one deed which has proven to be nice an' legal?"

The Kid gave an expressive snort and propped the pitchfork against the barn wall.

* * *

Heyes followed the Kid inside, his arms laden with the guns belonging to their prisoners, and kicked the door closed behind him. "Well, we got real good news for you boys. We can't be bothered feeding you all, so we're gonna let you go, providin' you hightail it out of here and don't stop ridin' for a solid week."

"You gonna give us our guns back?" Joe asked plaintively.

"Sure are." Curry took a revolver in each hand and pulled the hammers back one notch as five bound men recoiled away from him. He pointed the guns toward the roof, opened the cartridge doors, and used his thumbs to spin the cylinders. Bullets plunked to the wooden floor.

Heyes methodically emptied the rifles, setting the cartridges in piles on the table and stacking the weapons against the rickety chair.

"What are you doing?" Bryant whined.

"Well now, it might not be obvious to a real smart man like you, Mr. Bryant, but we're takin' the bullets out of your guns," Curry drawled, repeating his maneuver on the next two revolvers.

The last of the pistols was a snub-nosed sneak gun. The Kid turned it over in his hand and then looked over at with a smirk. "This must be yours, Mr. Simpson. I never met a crooked gambler yet who didn't carry one of these undergrowed things."

Seated on the floor in the corner with the disreputable-looking Belpher jammed against his shoulder, Simpson gave his best attempt a haughty sneer.

"Now we're going to let you all go, but with the understanding that we can shoot you on sight if you set foot on Wilkins' land again," Heyes announced, jerking Joe around to untie him. "Your horses are in that corral right outside. When you get up on that north ridge, one of us will ride up and bring you your guns."

While Heyes rolled the empty guns into a slicker that he removed from Bryant's saddle, Curry mounted his already-saddled horse and glared the intruders into hurrying away.

"You did leave the bullets on the table, didn't you?" the Kid checked as Heyes handed him the bundle, and found himself on the receiving end of the 'I'm not that dumb' grin.

At the top of the ridge, Curry dropped the bundle on the ground. "I don't want to see any of you back here again, is that clear?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Jones," Joe mumbled. The others were too busy scrabbling for their weapons to reply.

* * *

Kid Curry scooped the last bite of steak into his mouth and leaned back in the rickety chair to enjoy the chewing process. Across the table, Hannibal Heyes cradled his cup of coffee between both hands, his plate already empty.

"Y'know somethin', Heyes? This has been one of the most peaceful weeks we've spent in . . . well, in a long time." He swallowed his bite and sent a gulp of coffee after it.

"Yeah." Dark eyes lit in a vaguely wistful expression. "Just think of it, Kid, we've already earned fifty dollars apiece."

"Well now, I sure wish Major Wilkins a speedy recovery, but I reckon I won't mind if he takes his time about comin' out from Denver," Curry agreed. They exchanged satisfied glances across the table.

Gunshots from the north ridge turned the satisfaction to exasperation.

Curry cracked the door and peered out. "Hey, there's someone up on the ridge in a buggy. And someone's holdin' them up—it's those stupid card cheats again!"

"Let's get up there!" Heyes headed for the back door.

Heyes grabbed his bridle from the peg on the barn wall and vaulted onto his horse bareback, but Kid Curry took the time to throw a saddle on his dark brown gelding. With the cinch yanked tight in one move and his rider's weight in the saddle, the horse gave two quick bucks before galloping up the hill after the disappearing dun.

They pulled their guns before they reached the gathering on the hill. As they rode up to the men surrounding the buggy, Joe instinctively raised his hands in the air before sheepishly lowering them again.

"Howdy, boys," Heyes drew out the greeting with a grin that wasn't friendly. "I see you didn't have the sense to take our advice. What's the trouble, mister?"

The man in the buggy held the reins in his left hand. His right arm was cradled across his chest in a sling, and he sported a full pair of sideburns under a military-style hat. "You two must be Smith and Jones. I'm Major Wilkins."

"Good to see you're recoverin'," Heyes nodded. "Mr. Bryant, this wouldn't have anything to do with the two deeds we've got stashed back at the house, would it?"

Behind Bryant, Slick Simpson slowly pulled the edge of his coat open.

"I wouldn't, Slick." The hammer of Curry's gun clicked a warning, and the gambler moved his hand back to his saddle horn.

"Let's all go down to the house and discuss this, shall we?" Wilkins worded the remark as a suggestion, but his deep voice turned it into a command.

* * *

"Are you sure you want these fells inside your house?" Heyes murmured as he offered the injured man a helping hand out of the buggy.

Wilkins flicked a glance toward Curry, whose hand rested comfortably on his pistol grip. "I don't think they'll try anything with you and Mr. Jones around."

With seven men standing around the table and Wilkins occupying the chair, the room seemed crowded. Heyes retrieved the two deeds from their hiding place behind the chimney and spread them out on the table.

"Okay, Wilkins, here's your deed. And here's the deed that Bryant had on him—well, on Thumbs, anyway—last time he visited."

"Which was supposed to be the last time he ever visited," the Kid added with a hard look in Bryant's direction.

Wilkins didn't even look at the two deeds. "Boys, they're both forgeries."

Amid the exclamations that ran around the group, Heyes and Curry exchanged glances. "I knew we shouldn't have taken this job," Curry mumbled.

"I know they're both forgeries, because I managed to track down the original deed." Wilkins produced a sheaf of papers from his pocket and brandished one in front of the startled Bryant. "Unfortunately the crook who sold it to me didn't appreciate having his swindle discovered, which is why I was delayed for a few days." He nodded at the sling on his arm.

"I guess that means you got no claim to this ranch, Bryant," Heyes announced.

There was plenty of grumbling among Bryant's men as they left, but no one questioned Wilkins' military stance, Heyes' air of leadership, or Curry's significantly positioned gun hand.

"I want to thank you boys for a job well done," Wilkins said as they watched the visitors ride out

"Well now, it wasn't hardly any trouble at all," Curry smiled. "Don't hardly seem worth that fifty dollars apiece you promised us."

The major cleared his throat. "Er, we need to talk about that."

"Talk about what? You said—" Heyes began.

"I know, I know. But all the money I had saved went toward buying the ranch and then hunting down the phony deed seller. Now if you boys would hire on as hands and brush some of those maverick cattle down onto the range, I could pay you at roundup time." Wilkins looked hopefully from one to the other.

"You mean, hire on as cowhands for three months work just to get paid for this last week?" Curry checked.

"That's about it," Wilkins admitted.

Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry exchanged sighs.


End file.
